or… Tales of a 30 year old Nothing.

Tag Archives: steve

Donald blasts down the midnight freeway in his sports car. He is nude and sipping fermented gasoline from the skull of that Syrian kid pictured in the back of the ambulance. Donald remembers when that picture “went viral” (like a disease, he thinks to himself). He remembers seeing that boy’s hurt face and the shape of his head and thinking, “I simply must have it.” He hired someone to go and fetch it, clean it and bronze it in gold.

“I AM GOD!” he screams to the night just as red and blue lights fire on behind him. There is no unease in his belly. No anxiety in his guts. Police are nothing to him. Donald long ago learned that he is far above the forces of the law. He pulls over. The police officer approaches the car. “License and – Mr. President.”

Donald reaches over and grabs an Icer. It was a little gun that froze people, paralyzed them while leaving them completely conscious. It was developed at his request by the military. It was the only one that existed. He blasts the police officer in the chest and watches him fall face-first into the concrete. He hears his nose snap and several teeth crack out of his head.

The President of the Ewe-Es-of-Ay steps out of the car, pee and poop dribbling from his orifices. The alcohol has made him lazier and stupider than usual. He removes the officer’s body camera, makes a phone call and instructs Steve Bannon to handle the situation.

Bannon was a Kardashian that didn’t fit well into the human skin suit and you could tell just by looking at him. His face was like a ghost controlling a corpse trying to smile behind a curtain of decomposing meat.

Bannon steps through a Dimensional Interchange and looks down at the cop’s name badge. “Petersen.”

The actual name badge read, “Paulson” but Bannon was not very good at reading either.

Donald says, “It’s French,” and then steps back, aware of what will happen next. Bannon unhinges his skin suit and the decrepit mask snaps to the ground with an audible pop. Steve Bannon, real name Horace Hoover, lies down on the ground with a wet flop. He begins to inhale deeply. Exhale. Inhale. His stomach rolls and rises. His lips peel back, exposing rows of blunt and blackened teeth. “Father Bannon blesses you. Join my body and worship.”

He slithers forward and sucks the officer’s toe into his mouth, boot and all. Then his calf. Then his thigh. He pauses at the hips as his jaw unhinges and the second row of teeth begin to decimate the bone and cartilage. The officer’s free leg snaps backwards and he is ankle to ear.

The officer feels it. All of it. He’s gone into shock but can’t move or blink or scream. Thoughts race wildly and randomly through his head –

I’m supposed to pick up milk on my way home.

My thigh is broken. I’ll need a wheelchair.

My wife needs passwords to my email.

I can’t breathe.

I’m supposed to call Phyllis back.

My lungs have collapsed.

Did I wet my pants or is that blood?

It was both.

A second car drives past and witnesses the horrific scene. They speed up and Donald laughs and laughs and laughs. Bannon farts and groans as his wet lips fold over the officer’s red hair, consuming him completely, wiping his physical form from the face of the earth forever, like a snake eating a baby rhino.

Bannon rolls over onto his back and exposes his underbelly. Trump stares down at the milky white fat that looks like curdled milk under the full moon. He despises Bannon and trusts him even less but he’s a useful tool to have around.

Like a junkyard dog that you throw a piece of raw meat to once in a while.

Trump smirks, feeling empowered that he’s so much better than Bannon. He takes another sip from the decanter and begins to feel the second-wave effects of his drink. He’s expecting the hallucinations to begin shortly. He plans on taking his yacht into the middle of the ocean and opening it up. Maybe he would even murder a migrant worker at the docks if the fates allowed. The hull of his yacht was filled with a number of Mexican families he had lured in with promises of citizenship. They were now living in cages, starving and deprived of sunlight. You could hear their sallow moans from several nautical miles away. Often times Donald would just sit in the dark with his eyes closed and meditate on the beautiful sound of human suffering.

Like a puppy, Bannon shits when he’s done eating. He rolls onto his side and squeezes a long piece of fecal matter from his end-mouth. It smells like peppermint and gonorrhea. The scent makes Donald’s stomach roll in equal parts disgust and hunger.

From their pants – at this point both men are completely nude – their phones buzz. They’ve received a Twitter update. North Korea is building a nuclear bomb.

At first Donald doesn’t know what to think. Is this real news or fake news? Is North Korea even a real place? Is Kim Jong Un even a real person? His name certainly sounded like a moniker. His? Was it a he? He makes a note to have someone google it for him later.

You really can’t be too careful what you believe anymore. These are dark times.

Donald stews on that thought for a handful of seconds but less than one minute before deciding to tweet something back out to the world stage. It reads:

Kim Jong Un of North Korea, who is oviously a madman who doesn’t mind starving or killng his people, will be tested like nvr before! 😉

He doesn’t bother to re-read it a second time for grammar or spelling and just hits send.

Bannon is sliding back into his skin suit though it is proving to be tougher now that his ever-growing waistline is even more robust than earlier this very same evening.

Trump takes another sip from his decanter, crawls back into his sports car and leaves Bannon gurgling in the fading red brake lights.